In white wash, pale, gaunt stainless pubs,
Clubs,
and late night bars,
Where bleached sterile colourless colded,
Folded,
thoughts neatly stored away,
Bored away,
with stilted disinfected clean,
Entertainment machines,
drinkeries and chameleon venues,
Where you
absorb the sharp clean lines,
Defines,
delineates too clearly the contrasts,
Nothing lasts.
No,
Give me the scars and finger-marked doors,
Foot-worn floors,
and mascara-run paint,
Faint,
lights and shadows,
Of the hallowed,
sacred solitude of the men’s room,
Midnight moon,
hued walls, but I’ll remember just this:
The colour of Cocoa Mist.
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Author:
emptypot (
Offline) - Published: July 30th, 2024 14:05
- Comment from author about the poem: Another poem about a pub. It's very tounge-in-cheek, and it's meant as a lament for the lost community pubs. While big pub companies are trying to grey-wash our hostelries into lager warehouses, fine dining or the McD's of drinks, my favourite pub's only concession to modernisation was to paint the men's room in a shade labelled "Cocoa Mist", Edit: I revisited this and although I'm still fond of it, it is difficult to find the rhythm. I hope the tweaks to the spacing and punctuation helps.
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 7
Offline)
Comments1
Vivid images that at times float and at others lay on the floor. Nicely written
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